


Leathers

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Leathers, M/M, motorcycle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg plans to take Mycroft for a bike ride and a picnic, and Mycroft has gone to change into something more suitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leathers

Greg stood in the foyer, fiddling with the strap of his bike helmet. It was new, and therefore stiff and slow. It always pissed him off. He’d bashed up a few helmets, and there were always upgrades, and new designs, and he kept falling in and out of love with the things. This one was a luscious bubble of dangerous red, looking like it was doing 80kph while sitting quietly in his hands. He wanted to love it. It was easy on and off, one of the lightest he’d owned and that was in direct proportion to what it cost.

He was doubly paranoid now, because he was going to lend it to someone. Someone who, so far as Greg knew, had never worn a helmet before. And the strap was everything. If there were a crash, it was important that the strap be in good working order. He’d been the first one on scene enough times, as both victim and police, to know that a helmet had to come off cleanly without disturbing the neck of the wearer. If there were injuries, keeping the neck and head immobile were paramount, but being able to see the face inside the helmet was equally necessary. The strap had to hold through the crash and open smoothly when needed.

So Greg worked it and worked it, patient enough about waiting for his passenger because each passing moment gave him more time to smooth out the catches. He was just starting to relax a little when he heard heavy steps behind him. He half turned his head, still concentrating on the helmet. “It’s okay, no rush. I just want to make sure this is ready for him,” he said. The footsteps stopped beside him. Solid boots and leather leggings registered in the corner of his vision. Definitely a messenger. “See, it’s the emergency release. Time you most need it, you know? Always hate breaking in the new one.”

“Won’t be a problem.”

Greg jumped, dropping the helmet, his arms flying aside. He caught himself on the stair railing beside him. “Jesus!”

He stared up at the man who had walked up behind him. He was used to having to look up at Mycroft, but not like this. Heavy, thick-soled biking boots had added an extra inch to his usual height, and the tight leather made him seem that much longer. Greg swallowed, trying to get his bearings. “How -? _What?_ ”

Mycroft frowned at him, still fastening the collar of the jacket on his shoulder. He glanced down at the snap to line it up, then returned his attention to Greg, who was still staring, and felt he had every right to continue doing so. He was wearing high boots that cut off mid-calf, just below the exaggerated knee protection of the leather bike trousers. And for all that they seemed sturdy enough, Greg still thought they seemed awfully thin and tight, soft enough to encourage all the wrong kind of touching. The crotch...was not helping. The black leather jacket was also not helping. The serious, curious frown of the face above all of this was just completely wrong.

“Where did you... just.” Greg gestured weakly, taking another step back to look him over again. His expression changed from mystified to something verging on awe. “Damn,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Something wrong?” Mycroft was still frowning. He reached into the pockets of the jacket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. 

Greg groaned. “For God’s sake, Mycroft.” He took the gloves out of Mycroft’s hands. “Ah, God.” The leather was strong, but supple enough across the fingers, with a solid leather band at the wrist. “Explain.”

Mycroft shifted his weight, tipping his head to one side to catch Greg’s eyes. “I don’t understand. You said you wanted to take your bike. You told me to change. Have you changed your mind?”

Greg laughed, pressing his hands against the wall behind him and staring. “I dunno about changing it, but maybe I’ve lost it. Where did you even _own_ these?”

Mycroft’s face was creasing in the distaste he always showed for anything he considered needlessly stupid. “Here, obviously. Is there a problem?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m not sure I can... I mean, in public, like that.” He gestured again, his eyes unable to move away from the long, black-leather body before him. “You’re biker porn.”

Mycroft looked down at himself. “Would you prefer I wore a suit?” he asked acidly.

“No, just... fuck, Mycroft. You’re not even supposed to... how do you keep _doing_ this?”

“Doing _what,_ Gregory?”

“Look at me!” Greg almost shouted, laughing in frustration. “I can’t even form a sentence! I was supposed to be the one surprising you, and...” His eyes drifted again. “You do this.”

Mycroft’s expression softened. “I’m not going to ride pillion without taking precautions, Greg. What did you honestly expect?”

“I dunno.” Greg looked down at his own jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, boots. “I mean, maybe. But not this.”

Mycroft folded his arms across his chest, and Greg bit his lip and whimpered. “Tell you what - if you stand here long enough, there will no doubt be a phone call or text or e-mail that I can use as an excuse to stay behind and deal with, and you can have your picnic on the hill in peace and quiet, devoid of companionship. Is that what you’d like?”

Greg took a deep breath and grabbed Mycroft’s shoulders, tugging him off balance and pushing him forward toward the door. “Fuck that.” He bent to scoop up the helmet he’d dropped. “Put this on and I’ll try to pretend I don’t know you. That might last long enough for us to get down the drive, anyway. After that...I’ll have to think of something else.”


End file.
